


Empty sky

by Le_Noir



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Wings, Cultural Differences, HRBB 2014, M/M, hobbit reverse big bang 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Noir/pseuds/Le_Noir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is the proud Prince of Erebor, endowed with great, beautiful harpy eagle wings.<br/>Bilbo lives quietly in the Shire and, as the very next Hobbit, he quit flying when he came of age.<br/>When a storm catches Thorin during a trip to Ered Luin, making him crash into the tree atop Bag End, two cultures will come at odds.<br/>Will they eventually be able to look beyond differences and see what they can offer each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something in the night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic's been written for the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014, [art & prompt](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com/post/105214205631/show-me-the-stars-part-1-of-the-touch-the-sky) by mariejaquelyn.
> 
> Original prompt: _Wing AU where Thorin is the harpy eagle prince of Erebor. He has gotten lost in a storm on his way west to visit the Blue Mountains. Naturally he crashes into the tree over Bag End and injures his wing and Bilbo (a kingfisher) has to nurse him back to health. In return Thorin teaches Bilbo to fly again, since hobbits stop flying once they consider themselves ‘of age’. It’s too much of a bother and draws too much attention, so they walk almost everywhere._
> 
> First time working for a project like this! I fear I slipped a bit from the prompt, but hope the outcome will be worth anyway! 
> 
> The wonderful piece of art this story revolves around will be added in later chapters :)
> 
> A huge thank you to [mariejaquelyn](http://mariejacquelyn.tumblr.com) for her great prompt. Hope you'll like this fic.

Bilbo Baggins was a very respectable Hobbit.

He lived in Bag End, a cosy, warm hobbit-hole, full of comfort and plenty of food.

He liked fishing and having long walks in the woods, searching for flowers to enrich his house and mushrooms to enrich his meal. 

Just like everyone in his - _large, noisy_ \- family, he sported nice, colourful kingfisher wings and just as the next Hobbit, it’d been ages since he last used them to actually fly, thank you very much.

Hobbits, as it was, were plain quiet folk and had no use for flying. _It is a nasty, disturbing thing_ , his father always remarked, _which makes you late for dinner_. And Bilbo, as time passed, had come to agree with him.

Endowed with large, hairy feet, Hobbits led their peaceful existence walking here and there, enjoying the wind amongst trees canopy rather than under their wings.

***

It was a warm, sunny afternoon.

A gentle wind, from time to time ruffling the top of the trees with slightly too much force, carried word of distant heavy clouds and a storm maybe to come, but the sky was still clear, summer almost at its end, but still balmy.

The stream running across the country gurgled softly over rocks and through rushes, before spreading itself into a little lake right in the middle of a small wood not too far East from Hobbiton.

Sitting on the wooden pier, eyes fixed on the fishing line, Bilbo was already foretasting his dinner, dinner that had just bitten and was leading the bait in a crazy dance on the surface of the pond.

A refreshing walk home and a sizzling pan later, his day would be perfect.

***

The storm was upon him way before he even noticed that.

When had the gentle wind that had accompanied him turned into those whipping gusts, Thorin could not really say.

All what he knew was that, somehow, he had managed to drift from the fastest route along his way to the Blue Mountains, finding himself flying over an incredible expanse of gentle slopes and green meadows, heavily dotted with golden fields and little gardens.

As soon as he had acknowledged his error, he had tried to steer back on the right way, but suddenly everything around him was howling wind and deafening thunder and heavy rain.

He got tossed around, desperately flapping his powerful wings to try and fight back the merciless force of the tempest.

He fought, fought, fought, but eventually a particularly strong blow hit him and he lost control.

***

Looking at the fish's skin becoming golden and crispy in its bath of butter, Bilbo listened absent-mindedly to thunders rumbling in the distance. Some rain had fallen over Hobbiton too, but they had been spared the harshest part of the squall.

Thinking vaguely of how a bit more water would have been handy and how, instead, he needed to water his tomatoes come morning, he took the hot pan away from the fireplace and set to enjoy his so-invitingly smelling meal; but as he was spreading a pinch of salt over the crunchy crust, a loud cracking noise startled him: it sounded like something had just crashed right into his roof.

A bit worried, largely upset for being interrupted during dinner, Bilbo tightened the belt of his dressing gown and went for the door.

At first, he thought that a stray gush of wind had knocked hard enough to cause a branch of the tree growing atop his house to fall down. And, in fact, a branch - _more than one_ , to be precise - had actually been torn off the tree; what Bilbo was not expecting was the culprit not being the wind, but a fairly large _someone_ who now lay at the feet of the wounded tree in a haphazard pile of limbs and feather.

Bilbo's worry rocketed. His gut instinct told him to run and check on the figure, but something at the back of his mind - sense of self-preservation, probably - informed him that _what if the thing is going to eat you?_

 _That’s probably a bit exaggerated_ , he countered. It looked like nothing but a helpless, sad thing.

 _Better safe than sorry_ , the tiny voice in his head concluded, so Bilbo went for caution.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, gingerly stepping forward, and immediately cursed himself mentally because, seriously, that was such a stupid question: the poor one had just _crashed_ into a tree, for Eru’s sake!

However, stupid or not, it was a question which went unanswered. _Not good_.

"I'm sorry," he took another step, "do you need help?"

No answer. No movements.

Ignoring any other warning his mind could supply, he hurried and knelt beside the dark lump.

In the dim light of the torches around, he could make a silhouette out, the silhouette of someone who had to be a bit sturdier and higher than Bilbo himself. Their face was hidden in a tangle of long, dark hair, but from the proportions and the glinting of metal beads braided in that unruly mane, Bilbo guessed it was a Dwarf.

Not that the Hobbit had ever actually met one, but some of them lived in not-so-distant Ered Luin, and tales and descriptions had easily reached the Shire and Bilbo's ears (he was not _curious_ , mind you. He was just _attentive_ ). That one in particular had got great feathered wings - _eagle ones, maybe?_ \- one of which was bent at an odd angle.

 _Decidedly_ not good.

He carefully put a hand on the figure's shoulder and shook them gently. That earned him only a feeble groan. He tried again, whispering softly, but nothing more happened.

The Dwarf was clearly unconscious.

It was actually time to try and figure out something; but what do you even do when presented with a senseless Dwarf (or Hobbit, for that matter, or Man... but, yeah, _race is not the problem, Bilbo Baggins!_ )? Bilbo had never had to deal with knocked out people or similar emergencies. Above all, he had never had to deal with someone that passed out after falling on a tree.

Did he ( _she_? Thinking of it, he had not managed to see the other's face or front, so he had not been able to define that yet) need a warm place to rest and regain consciousness? Or did Bilbo need to splash cold water on them, hoping the shock would do the trick?

Probably a warm place and then a bit of cold water would compose the perfect combination, but since Bilbo could not build a house around the creature, to have warmth he actually needed to bring them indoor.

And that notion, as simple as it appeared, gave way to far too many other doubts.

First of all: how was he supposed to move the fallen one without cause more damage? Better, how was he supposed to _move_ them, period? They looked clearly heavier than what Bilbo thought he could lift without hurting himself. Maybe should he go and ask for help? He gave the idea two second's worth consideration, before deciding that a) it was too late to disturb other people and b) they would surely be dining.

At that, thinking of the fish sadly cooling in his kitchen, Bilbo was abruptly reminded, with a pang of severe annoyance, how his father had been right: flying was a nasty, disturbing thing, which made you late for dinner, even when you were not the one flying.

As gently as he was able, Bilbo tried to roll the being onto their side, aiming at putting them into a more comfortable position than the tangle of limbs that had been their landing one, caring not to strain the hurt wing too much.

Just to leave no stone unturned, Bilbo made an attempt at picking up the creature on his back, draping one of their arms over his shoulder, but soon it was clear that that would not be working.

As it seemed, Bilbo had to rethink his former conviction about building a house around the fallen one. Ok, right, a _house_ would actually be too much, but a comfortable nest, that could do.

Bilbo hurried home and a moment later he was crouching near the tree again, carrying an armful of soft blankets and comfy pillow. With deft hands, he pushed the latter under the creature’s face, piling the coverlets neatly over his body.

Once the Dwarf took on a comfortable enough look, Bilbo made a quick second trip inside, returning with an oil lamp and his dinner. Sitting on the spare blanket he spread out on the grass, he set out to finally enjoy his meal, vaguely hoping for the smell of the fish to work some miracle and wake the creature up.

But consciousness, as it seemed, did not intend on gracing them any time soon.

So, after finishing his meal (and actually checking on the creature’s breath because _what if he just dies under your eyes, you fool?_ ), Bilbo brought back his plate and returned armed with a nice book, his pipe and a teapot full of steaming hot liquid.

He settled on the ground again, taking a moment to look at the other’s face.

He looked like a male, Bilbo stated. _An attractive one_ , his mind supplied. Pale skin covered in a bushy beard and framed by long dark locks, a straight nose and thin lips, features carved hard by the strong shadows cast by the lamp Bilbo had hung to one of the branches.

***

When Thorin regained consciousness, it was to a wee figure reading by the feeble light of a lamp hanging from a tree, a cup of hot, steaming _something_ near their knees and lazy smoke puffs swirling in the air.

Nothing of that made any sense, so Thorin just lay there for a while, eyes fighting to stay open and failing epically, mentally analysing his situation.

He'd been _flying_.

Now he was _lying_.

Something had happened in between. But _what_?

The last thing he remembered was him getting lost in his way to the Blue Mountains and... _storm_ , his mind supplied somehow. Right, the storm was the last thing Thorin could remember.

He tried to check his body out and immediately regretted doing so.

Every inch of his being started to cry out in pain at the same time, making him wish for a split second he never really woke up; pain that, he registered, reached up to unspeakable peaks in his right wing, arm and side.

Bit by bit, he became aware of something soft under his cheek and something warm covering him; but even the mere attempt at understanding what that could mean made him uncomfortably aware of his aching _everything_ , so he just gave up. He kept lying and staring between half-open eyes (he had soon discovered that keeping them shut steered his conscience to focus on his pain and that was dramatically wrong). And from his position, the only thing he could concentrate upon was the reading figure beside him.

What caught his attention first were the patches of curly hairs covering the creature’s ridiculously large feet. _A Hobbit_ , his memory conceded, an amazing feat actually, considering the weight clouding his head.

 _Children of the kindly West_ he knew they were called amongst his people, but Thorin had never had the chance to meet any of them, only heard stories from those who came to Erebor from the Blue Mountains.

Soon, however, his brain revolted against all that thinking, so he just resumed the staring.

The word that flooded his mind was _soft_. Everything on the little one seemed to strive to fulfil that description: soft curls, soft cheeks, and soft belly, everything made even softer by the dim light around them.

He caught a glimpse of feathers on his back, but could not place, right away, what kind of wings those were. Suddenly, there was something tugging at the back of his mind, the shadow of a memory concerning Hobbits and their wings, but he could not, for the life of him, remember what it was about.

It was right while his mind was blissfully wandering in pursuit of some particularly elusive thought – not _concentrating_ on, just straying as far away as possible from the ocean of scorching pain his physical body was currently drowning into - when the eyes of the tiny creature rose from the page and met his.

His face immediately lighted in a surprised _oh!_

The little thing jumped to his feet, and a moment later Thorin was buffeted by the peculiar sensation of someone extremely zealous and yet a bit surly at the same time.

The creature was clearly worried for him and, judging from the comfort he was now surrounded by – the pillow and blankets, barely able to impose their smooth presence through the raging discomfort overflowing his battered body – he had tried to ease his suffering while he was out cold.

Despite that, there was something about him that screamed of hostility, although in a muffled way.

And then, again, he was too dazed and confused to think properly, or to think altogether.

Everything that happened from the moment the Hobbit helped him to his feet – wobbly legs barely supporting him – until he was lying down again, this time on a soft featherbed, passed in front of his eyes in a blurred sequence of moments merely spilling one into the other.

He thought he didn’t spoke bar some slurred nonsense, and was pretty sure he didn’t answer any of the questions the other asked him.

What the problem could be, it just floated carelessly out of his reach.

Probably it had to do with the fact that he had just crashed into what he had somehow come to realise was the tree decorating the roof of the halfling’s house, but it was not sure that was really the matter. It felt like something deeper; but, at the moment, he had not enough strength or will to find out.


	2. Worlds apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never satisfied with my work. Late as always. Enjoy <3
> 
> [Artwork & prompt by mariejaquelyn]

* * *

 

The morning after, Bilbo called in a physician.

A whole night spent tending to a semi-unconscious Dwarf – and feeling completely clueless about it – had made that feel like the only sensible thing to do.

After a considerable amount of pressing and prodding, pulling and twisting – garnished by the other’s suffocated curses and pained moans beyond gritted teeth – the doctor sentenced the Dwarf had suffered a small concussion (which was the cause of his confusion and dizziness), had a dislocated shoulder and a broken wing.

Once he had bandaged his wounded limbs, the Hobbit gave Bilbo a small bag of ground herbs, teaching him how to prepare a concoction to ease the pain, and recommended the Dwarf a great measure of sleep.

No talking.

Quiet and dark and rest.

For as long as possible.

That resulted to be five whole days, during which Bilbo’s guest kept on dozing, groaning and grunting between (and during) naps.

On the sixth day, Bilbo entered his guestroom to check on its occupant, and was met with a grumbled complain:

“I’m hungry!”

As those were the first words making any sense since the creature had been lying in his house, Bilbo took them as a good sign. A quite impolite one, that’s for sure, but Bilbo was a Baggins of Bag End, trained to accomplish politeness despite all the hurdles life intended to throw his way. So he just fixed the smile on his lips and swallowed down any possible nasty comment.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he remarked, and if a shade of sarcasm grazed his tone, he tried to dissimulate it.

“Hungry,” came the harsh reply. “I’m feeling _hungry_.”

Curiously enough, Bilbo felt his mind take two different paths at the same time.

A first part was contemplating in awe the way the Dwarf had managed to make an unbearable moron out of himself with just a couple of words. That was quite a feat, really, something worth giving Aunt Lobelia a run for her money.

Politeness be damned, for a split second Bilbo found himself considering taking his arrogant visitor out of bed and into the woods, leaving him there to learn manners from foxes and hares. But his Baggins- _ness_ kicked right back in full gear: he was not the one to turn someone down, especially a wounded someone (even when said someone had clearly no idea of what _decency_ meant).

Moreover, thinking of it, there were not that many Dwarves in Hobbiton, those days: the corpse of one of them would surely have raised _questions_.

Simultaneously, a second part of his brain just stalled on how incredible that couple of harsh words had _sounded_.

Till that moment, in fact, the other had just mumbled and groaned, thus Bilbo had not had the chance yet to appreciate the gravel in that voice, probably made even rougher by disuse and pain; a voice that rumbled like deep stone resonating, vibrating right down into his bones.

“I’ll be happy to serve you dinner,” Bilbo conceded, even if _waiter for a bearded nuisance_ was not on his list of pleasurable occupations. “But,” he added, “I’d really like to know your name before.”

Then, as awareness abruptly hit him, he bowed hastily.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service!”

The stranger on the bed grunted his acknowledgement.

“Thorin,” he rumbled, “son of Thràin, son of Thròr, Prince under the Mountain, and heir to the throne of Erebor.”

Bilbo had to admit the reply took him completely off-guard.

While the creature had been lying asleep in his bed, Bilbo had often entered the room: to check on the Dwarf, to open the window and air the chamber, to provide always fresh water on the bedside table. Amongst duties – even though, were he asked, he would deny everything – he had spent some time simply watching him sleep amid white sheets, strangely attracted by those sharp features, wondering who the Dwarf could be, where he came from, where was he headed.

All Bilbo’s knowledge about Dwarves came, aside from the stories he had heard, from his reading.

He knew there were many of their settlements around those lands, the closest one of which was the one in the Blue Mountains. He had read of the lost realm of Moria and knew about the wealthy kingdom of Erebor, stronghold of Dwarves far in the East.

He knew Dwarves were above all merchants and miners and skilled crafters.

Looking at his hands, lain on the sheets, sometimes clenching and closing in fists around grasps of fabric; looking at his arms – strong and muscular and _so damn well_ built – he had tried to guess what the Dwarf fallen from the sky made for a living.

Miner? But his hands, whilst in their strength, didn’t look like they held a pickaxe on a daily basis. Blacksmith? There were scars on his forearms, but a somewhat nobler air to him as well. In the end, Bilbo had settled for a jeweller.

Never would have he thought of royalty, even if – watching now – the lines about his face and shoulders hinted at an attitude to command.

But, now that the Dwarf – _Thorin_ , his mind supplied, and the name had a captivating lilt to it – was finally awake and speaking, learning about his status was not the only thing that left Bilbo gaping for a moment.

In the dark and the frenzy of the night of the accident, he hadn’t had the time or the attention to actually notice; then the other had been sleeping, so it was the first time, for Bilbo, to really take in how blue and deep his eyes were, and...

“So,” the grumbling voice startled him out of his reveries. “ _Master Baggins_ – and how strange his name sounded, in that gravely tone streaked with impatience – now that you know my name, may I have food?”

Despite himself, Bilbo felt the burn of a flush crawling up his neck – but if it was because of the cheek coating Thorin’s words or whichever else reason, he could not decide.

“Oh,” he stammered, “oh, yes, yes.” And he scurried to the kitchen.

That day, like the five days before, Bilbo had not felt like going to the lake, feeling uncomfortable at leaving the Dwarf all alone for too long. Therefore, lacking fresh fish caught by himself, he had turned to the fishmonger’s at the market.

Not too long later, another of his tasty, crunchy fishes lay on a tray balanced over Thorin’s lap.

***

“Fish!”

Bilbo was placing some freshly pressed sheets in a chest in Thorin’s room, when the word hit him, leaving him slightly disoriented. He turned to face the Dwarf lying abed.

“Sorry?”

“Fish,” Thorin repeated, the ever-present vein of annoyance loud and clear in his voice. “The fish we had for dinner yesterday; it was delicious.”

“Oh!” Bilbo uttered, genuinely surprised by the unexpected compliment on his cooking – not that he deemed his cooking anything less than perfect, mind you, but hearing that from the grumpy prince of harshness was flatly staggering. Maybe had he judged him too fast? – “Glad you liked the food, I-”

“I want more!”

Oh, _right_.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo didn’t let his smile falter.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got no fish, today. I bought some meat at the market, but didn’t go fishing.”

“You can go now,” Thorin replied, the tone of someone who’s forced to explain something embarrassingly obvious to someone embarrassingly dense.

 _No_ , Bilbo reflected, _no too-fast judgment_.

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,” he stated, hip polite façade still in place. “I’d certainly go, if you care so much, but it’s late and it would be dark before I could reach the lake and fish and come back here. But now that I know, tomorrow I’ll be sure to...” but he trailed off when he noticed the look the other was casting his way. “What?”

“You have wings!” Thorin exclaimed, looking for all intents and purposes like Bilbo had just grown a second head right on the spot.

The Hobbit’s eyes went comically wide, and he sputtered a bit, indignantly, as though Thorin had just cursed the name of all his ancestors right into their house.

“I’m a respectable Hobbit!” he protested. “I don’t _fly_!” and he grimaced on the last word, as if it had left a foul taste in his mouth.

That was the moment when suddenly Thorin remembered what was so strange about Hobbits and their wings.

***

“Seriously you don’t fly?” Thorin asked a couple of day later, in that abrupt manner of his, half-sitting on the bed, propped against a pile of cushions like a king on his throne, brows furrowed in his perpetual scowl, gaze solemn and piercing, while flickering lazily through the pages of a book on his knees.

Again, the question took Bilbo off-guard.

He turned slowly toward him, a scowl matching the dwarvish one.

“Do I look like someone who would fly?” he countered, way too petulantly, and probably he felt quite stupid even before Thorin lifted that task from him and poured all his energies on seeing through it himself.

“You’ve wings, you know...” he cocked a brow, a mocking smirk curving his lips in a way that had no right at looking so enticing.

“I’m a respectable Hobbit!” he repeated stubbornly, the motivation sounding vaguely stale at his own ears for whatever reason he did not bother to understand.

The prince didn’t look satisfied at all.

“So...” he prompted, the irritating smirk still in place (and Bilbo could distinctly feel the instinct to wash it away from his face with a punch or... but he stopped _that_ particular train of thoughts).

“So, respectable Hobbits don’t fly. Nasty, impractical thing.” He shrugged the thought away.

“Hardly impractical,” Thorin replied. “You can travel very far in a matter of hours and-”

His sentence got interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. A stinging one.

“And you can easily kill yourself into strangers’ trees, right!”

“That was an accident!” the Dwarf retorted. “I don’t plan on being swept away by storms on a daily basis, you see.”

“And I never heard of walkers swept away by storms in first place!” Bilbo went on, obstinate.

They kept glancing at each other for a moment longer, before Bilbo shut the drawer he was rummaging in a bit too forcefully and marched out of the room, leaving a fuming Dwarven prince on the bed.

***

Days passed.

Two weeks rolled by, and Thorin was more and more restless.

His confinement in bed had by then stopped to be mandatory, since he was feeling better, and he was now allowed to leave his room to wander the house and the garden too, as long as he avoided tiring himself too much: his shoulder was completely healed, but the physician asserted his head could use a bit more peace, still.

Obviously, he was not allowed to fly, yet, since, no matter what he thought, his wing needed more rest. And, obviously, flying was the only thing Thorin was interested in.

Bilbo mused how, in fact, he should find this not surprising at all. The Dwarf’s stubbornness had something uncanny to it, seriously; his body should have not been able to store all of it, what with how overflowing it was.

The Hobbit could swear he was left dealing with nothing more than a small, mulish child; a child stupidly charming in his obstinacy, but an obstinate child nonetheless.

 _I need to fly!_ Thorin would repeat continuously. _I’m a prince and I have duties to accomplish, I need to go!_

At first, Bilbo had tried and spoke to him, explaining that, _no, your wing needs more time to heal completely_ , incredulous at the thought that he had to have such a talk with a grown adult.

Once, a day that his patience had run a bit too thin and his mouth a bit too quick, he had even stated that, if his wings were not ready to carry his weight yet, he was perfectly able to just _walk_ all the way to where he was so sorely needed, but Thorin had looked so genuinely outraged by the fact that he had somehow dared to suggest the idea of him walking, so positively scandalised, that Bilbo had internally chuckled and never brought the subject up again.

In the end, however, the Hobbit had just grown extremely tired with his own useless attempt at talking some sense into that royally dogged head, so he merely pretended to be listening, nodding absentmindedly, as the Dwarf prince ranted about duty and indecent delay.

Bilbo deemed of no use to try and point out to Thorin how, as soon as he had felt well enough to write, he had composed a message for those who were waiting for him, message that Bilbo had made sure to give to some merchants headed west; all this meaning he was not really in all that hurry, since his people already knew about the _small accident_ that had occurred him during his journey.

He had just reached the conclusion that all the ranting and talking of royal responsibility was nothing more than some sort of stress outlet.

Bilbo, however, would soon learn what extents the stubbornness of Dwarves could _actually_ reach.

***

It was a warm day right at the gates of autumn, and he Bilbo was lounging on the wooden pier of the lake again, fishing pole at his side, simply basking in the pleasurable embrace of the afternoon sun, when the light behind his closed eyelids went suddenly darker.

He thought distractedly of an annoying cloud spoiling the blue of the sky above him, when his brain took in the flapping sound which had joined the sloshing of water against the wooden poles and the quiet chirping of the occasional bird amongst the leaves.

He frowned a bit, not actually willing to open his eyes, when a deep, commanding voice startled him.

“Join me!”

Bilbo all but sprang to his feet, catching hold of his fishing pole in an instinctive, defensive move. His jaw dropped in bewilderment when in front of his eyes, and considerably above his head too, Thorin appeared.

At first, shock barrelling into his brain without asking for permission, Bilbo could not help but think how utterly majestic a sight he offered, wide wings spread and slowly moving to balance his broad, tensed body in mid-air, face lit by some sort of burning delight.

For a moment, he knew he was graced with the view of that prince in all his proud glory, like the true form of some divine being – for a fleeting instant, his mind actually pondered if any comparison with Eönwë or Manwë himself would be labelled as blasphemy – but he was eventually pulled out of his musing when realisation kicked in and _no, Thorin should not be there. No good. No good!_

“What do you think are you doing?” he shouted, but he received no answer, just another dry command.

“Join me!” he repeated, perching on top of one of the pier’s poles.

“No, I don’t want to!”

“Just give me your hand,” Thorin leaned forward a bit, stretching an arm toward Bilbo. “I won’t let you fall!”

Out of instinct, Bilbo tightened his grip around the staff in his hands, and pointed it outward, in the other’s direction.

“Shove off this instant, or I’m going to bean you with my fishing pole!” he warned. “And for all the Valar’s sake, why did you come here? Why are you flying? You know you’re not allowed yet, you’ll hurt yourself!”

 

 

But it was more than clear that Thorin was not listening in the slightest.

His eyes were ablaze with something Bilbo had not seen yet and it was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful. Bilbo could not take his eyes off him as the prince pushed away from the wood and soared a bit higher, taking a sharp turn, feathers grazed by light wind. His rough voice rolled out in a full laughter that was surely sheer excitement as well as some mock to the Hobbit’s resistance.

And Bilbo could not help again, but feel a unexpected pang of _something_ clawing at his stomach, like the lazy stirring of some long-forgotten beast still asleep in the depths of his being.

And then, abruptly, it happened.

Bilbo might have closed his eyes for a second or he was just lost too deep in considerations, but all of a sudden the victorious grin on Thorin’s face morphed into something that was unmistakably pain.

Then he was gone.

With a loud _thud_ and a strangled cry.

With the noise of snapping wood.

With the noise of ground hit too fast.

 _Again_.

Bilbo heard his own shriek of distress resonate in the air, before he dropped his fishing pole – an unsuitable string of curses leaving his mouth – and ran to the wood, to the tree upon which Thorin had so ungraciously landed.

When he reached the spot and saw Thorin lying there, it felt like a dreadful déjà vu. As he kneeled beside him, however, he was met with pained moans mixed to murmured curses.

_Better than last time, then._

At least, he would not have to go all the way home and back again to provide Thorin with blankets and pillows, waiting for him to wake up; even thou, if he had to be honest, he was so positively pissed that, had Thorin lost consciousness again, he would have probably just left him there to his own device. Yes, Thorin had actually to thank the Valar for not passing out, this time.

He was about to check on the Dwarf, when a snarl rumbled a bit louder than the others.

“Just shut up!”

The walk home took them a ridiculous amount of time, what with Thorin limping evidently and cursing under his breath every other step.


End file.
